Off I Go
by Cassy27
Summary: John finds Sherlock with a used needle next to him. He is determined to help his flatmate, if only he can have Sherlock open up to him and accept his help. Not Slash.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters. **

**AN: This is my first fic for Sherlock and I can only hope that it isn't written badly. I tried to make it as good as possible and I hope it will be enjoyed. **

**Edit****: I wrote this about two years ago. In July 2013, I edited it because I think my English has improved and I honestly think I could make this better. So I hope that will be appreciated. Thank you, guys, for reading. Your support means the world!**

**This story is set after the third episode of season 1.**

**Off I Go**

Awful.

Was there any other word to describe it?

John sighed deeply as he watched Sherlock lying on the couch, one hand resting on his chest that slowly moved up and down with every breath he took. His other arm hang loosely over the edge of the couch with his sleeve pulled up and a small red spot visible in the pit of his arm.

His skin looked pale, sweat covered his brow and his lips were dry. His eyes moved rapidly as he was having a dream, but John wasn't sure whether or not it was a good one. He didn't know whether he wanted it to be a good one. '_Goddammit, Sherlock'_, he cursed silently. He let his gaze slide towards the floor, and he knew exactly what he was going to find there, but actually seeing it still shocked him.

A used needle.

John pressed his lips together. He wanted to wake Sherlock to yell at him, to shout and perhaps even use physical abuse. How stupid could his flat-mate truly be? Using drugs again? It still surprised John that an intelligent man such as Sherlock could actually act so irresponsible.

The anger disappeared from his mind and was slowly replaced by disappointment. He had known Sherlock was a former drug abuser, Sherlock had told him himself in so many words, and John was a doctor after all. He should have seen the signs. He should have noticed _something_!

He looked back at Sherlock's face, and seeing as the man was still vast asleep, John knew he wouldn't feel too good when he would be woken up sometime during the next few hours. No, it was best if John let him sleep for now. He could use all the rest he was getting right now and so the doctor decided to simply sit with him on the opposite couch.

He didn't let his gaze wander away from his flat-mate, his _friend_, as he wanted to make sure that he was still able to breathe properly. He wanted to make sure that he wouldn't go into shock.

So he sat there for a couple of hours, patiently waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

It was around midnight when John saw Sherlock stir to life.

Sherlock's hand that had been resting on his chest moved to cover his eyes and he groaned softly. He was probably feeling the first stings of a throbbing headache. His other arm moved upwards as well, his fingers pushing aside some curls that covered his eyes.

"Welcome back," John said, his voice void of emotion. He was still angry and disappointed, but expressing such emotions would do nothing to help Sherlock right now.

Sherlock's eyes immediately flew open, his gaze focusing on the doctor sitting opposite of him. His eyes were nothing more than two thin lines and John faintly wondered if Sherlock could see him clearly. The living room was rather dark in the end since John hadn't bothered to switch on any lights. The only light entered the apartment came from the street outside.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was soft, which indicated that he clearly couldn't stand much noise around him.

"Yeah, it's me," John answered in an equally soft voice.

"This is not what it looks like," Sherlock sighed while he pushed himself into a sitting position. This time, due to the movement, he groaned loudly, his hands reaching for his head again. He closed his eyes as he let himself lean back into the couch.

"You look awful," John commented.

Sherlock opened one eye now and it seemed his vision had become a little sharper because he opened his other as well. His dark gaze immediately locked with John's and they stubbornly looked at each other, not wanting to be the first to look away, neither wanting to show much emotion.

John won.

"Go ahead," Sherlock mumbled which was so very uncharacteristic of him, "judge."

"I'm not judging _you_." John crossed his arms before his chest. "I'm judging your actions."

"Isn't that the same?"

"No," John answered with an unwavering voice, "because you are an intelligent man. Your actions on the other hand, could be described as quite idiotic."

"I call that judging me," Sherlock simply said. There was little emotion in his voice or eyes. It was like he was still half out of it, but this was _Sherlock_. He never behaved the way a normal person would behave.

Perhaps that was why John could stand him, why he liked him not only as a flat-mate, but as a friend. He was unpredictable and whenever he was around, John found himself having a good time.

"Why did you do this?" John asked then. He leaned forward, somehow trying to reduce the distance between him and Sherlock. He not only wanted to hear a proper answer, he wanted to hear the truth. John knew it was nearly impossible, but he liked to believe he knew when Sherlock was lying or not.

"Because I was bored?" Sherlock answered jokingly.

It didn't amuse John. "Oh please," he snapped, "can't you come up with a better answer than that? Aren't you supposed to impress me?"

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. He let his gaze drop to his hands lying still in his lap. John wasn't sure if this meant he was looking for a better lie or whether he was considering the possibility of telling John the truth.

"You wouldn't believe me," Sherlock said after a moment of silence. John pressed his lips together, definitely not satisfied with _that _answer either. Sherlock turned to gaze at the doctor and after seeing his stern expression, he stood up from the couch and started walking away.

John would have none of that. This conversation hadn't ended just yet. "Where are you going?" He demanded to know.

"To take a shower," Sherlock called back, already having stepped into the narrow hallway.

John exhaled sharply and promised to himself that he wasn't going to let this matter go. He considered himself to be Sherlock's friend and he wasn't going to stand by and watch make the worst mistake of his life. He certainly wasn't going to let him throw away his entire life by using drugs again.

_No_, John thought, _I am going to help him_. All he needed was a new tactic, a way of having Sherlock open up to him. Though achieving that wouldn't be as easy as it sounded like.

-o-o-

He was resting with his back against the wall opposite of the bathroom door. John was patiently waiting on Sherlock to finally finish his shower, but it seemed that the young Holmes wanted to drag out the moment as long as possible. Could it be Sherlock knew John was waiting for him? Was he avoiding him?

For a moment, John feared he might actually have passed out, but after a moment of focusing, he could hear movement inside the bathroom, so he stayed put, knowing that Sherlock had to come out of there once in his lifetime. Sherlock might be a stubborn man, but so was John.

And then the door finally swung open and Sherlock exited, wearing a black jeans and a casual white shirt. He walked on bare feet and he was still in the process of drying his hair with a towel, but he immediately came to a halt when he saw John stand before him. He sighed in annoyance, but John didn't care.

"I was thinking," John started to say, "that perhaps you were bored. Then I thought; that can't be it because well...our lives have been pretty busy these past few weeks with cases and such."

Sherlock stopped drying his hair and carelessly tossed the towel into the bathroom, though he aimed at the basket for dirty laundry. He could aim surprisingly well considered the slight tremble of his hands. Yes, John had noticed that. He was still a doctor after all. Observing was just part of the job-description.

It was clear that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything as he walked straight past John and headed into the kitchen. He quickly opened the refrigerator and found a bottle of milk. When he closed the refrigerator again, he found John standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms crossed before his chest.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cocked his head to the left. "What?" He sneered. He was clearly in a bad mood, which wasn't that uncharacteristic for the man, but he usually never took it out on his friend.

"I wasn't done speaking," John explained calmly. He walked further into the kitchen and sat himself down at the kitchen table, watching how Sherlock poured himself a glass of the cold milk and drank it empty in one gulp. "Thirsty, I see," he said, "any other strange cravings?"

"It's milk," Sherlock stated, "there is nothing strange about it."

"You never drink milk," John commented, "I know you better than you want to believe or admit, Sherlock. I might not be living with you for that long, but I notice things. And now I notice how you normally don't drink milk."

"Congratulations," Sherlock smiled without humor.

"What is it?" John now asked. His voice was harder this time, definitely more urgent. "How long has it been since you last used drugs? Months? Years? Why start again so suddenly?"

Sherlock put down his empty glass on the counter behind him, but he never glanced away from his flat-mate. His eyes had darkened and they had grown very shielded. It was hard for John to read any emotion in them which he didn't like.

"Because of you," Sherlock sighed after a short pause, "because of all the others."

John frowned. He didn't understand what Sherlock was telling him. He truly wanted to comprehend, but he needed a little more than that. He leaned forward, his elbows leaning on the kitchen table. "What do you mean?"

"_Moriarty_," Sherlock explained, "he played a game with me." He sat himself down at the table as well now, sitting opposite of John. "The riddles," he continued to say, "that's what fascinated me, that's why I played along. I didn't want the people he used to die, but...I didn't really care either."

John bit down on his lower lip and swallowed heavily. He was looking for the right words to say, for something that would reassure Sherlock and tell him that he wasn't to blame, but instead he remained silent.

"I've never been much of a person to feel guilt," Sherlock continued speaking, "it even took me a while to realize that the reason that I was feeling so horrible these past few days, weeks even, was because I felt _guilty_." He leaned back into his chair and brushed a hand through his dark curls. "I hated it," he told John, "I didn't want to feel guilty. I did what I could, didn't I? I saved you, I saved others, though not all. I wanted to feel something else again."

"So you used drugs," John concluded, his voice soft.

Sherlock nodded. "Just this once," he said, "don't worry, it won't happen again."

"You're a former drug addict," John said, his voice stronger again. He really needed Sherlock to understand his message and even though he had all the confidence and fate in his friend, John wasn't naïve. "Of course it will happen again."

Sherlock only smiled and looked into John's light eyes. "We have a new case," he announced suddenly, "a promising one. Nothing is what it seems. Very thrilling."

Before John could say anything else, Sherlock dashed out of the kitchen.

The doctor could only exhale sharply. At least now he had his answer. All he needed to figure out now was how he could possibly help Sherlock with all this because _this_ wasn't over, not yet anyway. John was still a doctor and he'd seen enough junkies to know that no one ever controlled their urges to use again.

And Sherlock was no different.

-o-o-

For a while, everything seemed to going okay. For a few days, Sherlock focused all of his attention on their new case, but that was until he realized how ridiculously simple it was. He had solved it in less than four days and immediately, John saw the signs again.

Sherlock had nothing to occupy his mind with and he had too much time to think. John had tried everything to keep Sherlock busy, to help him keep his mind away from the drugs, but it somehow wasn't meant to be. It had only been six days since he had found his flat mate on the couch with a used needle on the floor.

And now it had happened again, like a movie repeating itself, every scene exactly the same. Sherlock lay on the couch, a used needle nearby and John could only bite away his disappointment and fear. Those emotions wouldn't do Sherlock any good right now.

John found that he had no other choice. He hated doing this, he hated betraying his friend in this manner, but it was the only way he could help him. He pulled out his cellphone and scrolled down to find one specific name.

_Mycroft Holmes._

He hesitated and doubted for a moment, but then he glanced at the unconscious form of Sherlock and John made a decision. He pressed the dial button and after only two seconds, he heard a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"John," Mycroft greeted him. One could hear the smile on his lips. "What a surprise."

John swallowed heavily. He could still change his mind. He could still close his phone. He could still try and help Sherlock on his own. Oh, but was he kidding? He might be a doctor, but whenever it came to Sherlock, John knew he would be his friend first and foremost. "I need your help, Mycroft," he said reluctantly, "with Sherlock."

A short silence. "Is something wrong?" Mycroft asked, his voice careful.

"He's using again," John gazed at his sleeping flat-mate before him, "he can't control it."

"I see," Mycroft sighed, "I will come and pick him up in the morning."

"Where will you take him?" John demanded to know. He had asked Mycroft for help, but he hadn't expected him to immediately take Sherlock away. And knowing Mycroft and all the secrecy surrounding him, John couldn't possibly know where Sherlock would end up. It was a thought that scared him.

"A private hospital," Mycroft explained, "he's been there before. He'll be mad, he'll be _furious_ even, but it's for his own good."

John nodded until he realized Mycroft couldn't actually see him. "Perhaps," he simply said.

"You did the right thing calling me, John," Mycroft assured him with a silk, smooth voice, "Sherlock can do many things, but taking care of himself has never been his strong suit."

The call ended and John let himself fall back onto the couch. He gazed at his friend, knowing that tomorrow, he would be gone. If only John knew for how long.

-o-o-

The morning came too soon.

Sherlock woke up a little before seven and John explained to him what would happen today. He wasn't sure what he saw in Sherlock's eyes, but it was definitely a mixture of guilt, anger, disappointment, and disbelief.

"It's for your own good," John told him, his voice soft and caring.

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock replied harshly as he paced up and down the living room, "why did you call him?"

"Because I had no other choice," John defended himself, "you have no idea what you are doing to yourself."

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed.

"You used again," John said, ignoring Sherlock's scoff, "you might consider yourself to be smart and special, but when it comes to drugs, you're an ordinary junkie."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and looked at John as if he had been slapped across the face. His lips parted for a second, but then he closed his mouth again and swallowed heavily. He gazed outside and John already regretted his words. He'd spoken the truth, yes, but perhaps there were gentler ways of bringing it across.

A car pulled up in front of the house.

"Sherlock..." John sighed.

"He's here," Sherlock didn't look at John, "I guess you won't see me for a while."

John looked away from his flat-mate. He felt as if he had stabbed his friend in the back, but there hadn't been another choice..._right_? He sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said, "I only did what was right."

There was a short knock on the door and Mycroft entered without waiting for an answer. His gaze fell on John and he nodded once as a greeting. Then he turned to look at his younger brother who was still looking outside.

"It's time," Mycroft announced.

Sherlock nodded, turning around to look at his brother. He walked towards him, ready to follow him outside without protest or without another word. It surprised John to see how willingly he joined his brother. Perhaps Sherlock did have a sense of what was right, perhaps he did know he needed help.

"I'll see you soon," Sherlock said just before he exited the apartment. He gaze pierced John's. He didn't look angry or disappointed and if John wasn't mistaken, he found that Sherlock even appeared slightly relieved. "I guess."

"I'll visit you," John assured him.

Sherlock chuckled. "Where I'm going, there are no visitors allowed."

John looked at Mycroft, but the man only remained silent. He turned on his heels and walked outside of the apartment with Sherlock following close behind, looking like a sheep being guided to the slaughter house.

"Sherlock!" John called out, running after him. He caught up with him just outside of the front door. "You'll be alright, won't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Contrary to your beliefs, John," he smiled and it was genuine, warm smile, "I _can_ take care of myself."

And then he was gone and John remained all alone in his apartment. He couldn't help but feel guilty as he still didn't know whether he had done the right thing by calling Mycroft. The only comforting thought he had about the whole situation was that he was certain that Sherlock would finally get all the help he needed.

_Yes_, John thought, _soon, he would have his flat-mate back._

-o-o-

The end.

-o-o-

**AN: It's done! I don't know why I wrote this, I think I was inspired by all the great fics out there and I wanted to give it a try as well. I hope you'll let me know what your thoughts are on this.**


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